Unlikely Allies
by ATG-4835
Summary: In 1964, a 24-year-old Rorschach meets a new costumed-adventurer called Nite Owl II. Realizing that their skills complement each other, they decide to band together in what will eventually be the famous partnership between the two most unlikely allies.
1. Chapter One

**Unlikely Allies  
Chapter One  
**

Rorschach's Journal, November 7th, 1964. 9:53pm.

_I hate this city. Apathy and indifference is in every house and on every street. Someone screams and no one comes to help. Murders and rapist lurk in alleyways, waiting for an opportunity to prey on the innocent. They are society's leeches, draining all the lifeblood from an already anemic city. Why is there so few willing to stand up for what is right? I am not talking about costumed heroes, but regular people helping regular people. A man punches his wife in a store and no one says anything. No one intervenes. Good people are rare and it is up to me to save them. It seems like only I want to help save the world._

_.][._

Rorschach shut the journal with a faint '_fwap_', slipping the battered book and pencil into an inside pocket of his trench coat, making sure that the button was secured. If lost, the journal could fall in to the wrong hands. His thoughts were for his eyes alone. His mind laid bare in the cramped, slanted handwriting that covered each page. The thought of someone using his journal against him was revolting. He closely guarded his privacy. No, No one would ever be allowed to see.

He looked at the city beneath him. The grimy, rotting factory roof he was perched upon gave him a perfect view of his surroundings while providing him with relative anonymity. The building was one story taller than those directly nearby, which meant he was granted a clear, unhindered picture of New York.

New York. The Big Apple. The pride and joy of the US. Hundreds of tourists flocked to the cesspit city every day, snapping photographs of monuments and staring wide-eyed at the skyscrapers. So enraptured with the pillars of corruption and greed, where politicians and lawyers roll in dishonest money collected by illegal means. The buildings were home to some of the worst sleaze, hiding behind masks of honesty. To them, you are a friend until there is extra cash to be had, and then you are turned on in an instant. The cooperate world where green pieces of paper was the only thing that mattered. Not their family or the city or justice or their job. Just money. They were disgusting. All of them.

This city was a rotting waste dump, full of agony, misery, and horror. The homeless and the poor dotted the populated streets, holding out their hands for a pocketful of loose change. Unfortunate lives. Innocent children born into poverty, forced to grow up too soon in order to survive. Teenage girls becoming prostitutes, sleazing on corners and turning to drugs for an escape. Men hiding in alleyways, waiting to prey upon the naive that were foolish enough to wander into their path. And all the while, the rich and wealthy put on bright, thousand-watt smiles and pretended that nothing was wrong. None of them knew. None of them knew what truly lay beyond the clean streets and shiny buildings that stank of greed like a perfume store stank of perfume.

Rorschach observed his surroundings, his eyes and ears both on alert for any sign of trouble. The night was still quiet, or as quiet as it could be in a large city. Alarms of police cars and sirens or ambulances blared in the distance, and the honking of horns on the populated roads was a constant. There was a constant dull roar of traffic that never faded. No sign of anything out of the ordinary so far. He had stopped briefly to write in his journal, but there was still work to be done. Crime stopped for nothing. He didn't stop either. Not until morning, where the risk of being noticed was too great.

The night was clear and fresh for once. It always seemed to be raining in this decomposing city; a reflection of the murky, depressing misery that lay beneath it. A clear night was a welcome change. He knew it wouldn't last. Weather like this rarely did. Still, he would take advantage of it. Seeking out criminals and drug dealers and rapists was more convenient when the skies weren't pouring. And the screen of pollution that floated above helped block out the light from the moon, so he could slip through the streets easier.

He didn't need to slink around like a criminal. It was a personal preference. Attention was the last thing he wanted to draw to himself. The press was scrabbling for any news of his actions and had sent out photographers throughout the streets in hoped of getting some sort of photo of him in action. So far, he was a complete mystery to them. They had very little to work with, beyond his description and even that was second hand, coming from those he had rescued. They had nothing on him and he preferred it that way. The media was a savage beast that could turn on you in the blink of an eye. He cared little about his reputation, but the less they knew of him, the easier it was to work in peace. The last thing he wanted was to turn into Ozymandias.

The blots on his face shifted into a fierce, angry looking pattern.

Ozymandias. A costumed glory-whore. He didn't sell his body, but he sold his image. A whore was still a whore. Ozymandias had been working up a name for himself in the last five years, posing for pictures and giving interviews left and right, soaking up the attention like a giant sponge in a sea of admiration. The press was awed by him and he had a fan base a mild wide. He seemed to be every teenagers dream boy. The Sean Connery of the costumed heroes. But despite his publicity and fame, he was someone even Rorschach wouldn't want to go up against. The man, who must've been in his mid twenties, perhaps one or two years older than Rorschach, was a force to be reckoned with. He was fast, dangerously so, and was incredibly strong and graceful. Like a gymnast or athlete. Rorschach had excelled in gymnastics and amateur boxing, but nothing near that of the skill of Ozymandias. The man was a deadly enemy, though a vain one. He was everything Rorschach wasn't. Smooth-talking, liberal, attention-seeking, social, and completely in love with his image.

How strange it must be to enjoy the face that looks back at you in the mirror. He had never known what that must be like. Not for all his twenty-four years of life. Without his mask on, Rorschach couldn't stand to look at himself.

He wasn't an attractive man. No. Orange hair and freckles on a blank face that didn't show expression except rage and disgust. He always looked much older than he really was. Ugly, really. He didn't care. There wasn't time to take care of his features and in any case, he was not a vain man. He showered perhaps twice a week, in order to keep his job. Sometimes more, depending on the level of filth and grime that covered him after each night of crime fighting. Women didn't look at him with anything but revulsion. He didn't want them to look at him at all. The thought of eyes roaming over his body was repulsing. He went out of his way to avoid the cheap whores that lined the sidewalks, who would screw anyone for a handful of cash.

The only part of him he was at all sensitive about was his height. It had always been a sore topic with him, and had been the grounds for much of the taunting he had experienced through school. At only 5'6 tall, he hardly struck a threatening figure without his mask on. His shoes, much to his embarrassment (though he would never admit it), were padded to give him an extra inch and a half. It hardly seemed to make a difference.

The press was building him up to be some larger than life character that slinks through the dark alleyways searching for crime. They way they wrote, he might as well be some heroic vampire, devouring any and all wrong-doers in his path. Not far from the truth. He lacked fangs, though. Despite his dislike of the media, their description of him was increasingly helpful to his reputation. Criminals and rapists who saw his mask many timed tried to flee. They knew who he was, and just what acts of violence he was capable of. He could always count on press to exaggerate.

Rorschach's head snapped towards the left, attentively. He had heard a scream. It was clearly a female's voice. Not the filthy cry of sexual release. He had learned to distinguish between distress and delight when he first began as a costumed hero. The adrenaline began to race through his veins, lighting his blood on fire. That rush, that feeling that he had before each confrontation was something he craved. The knowledge that justice was approaching and that he was to be the one who would deliver it. Evil must be stopped. Greed, corruption, and crime must be put to an end. They thought that they were untouchable. That by lurking in dark alleyways, no one would come to help. Police were on patrol, yes, but too often did criminals slip through their fingers. Police could not be everywhere at once. Scum thought that they would not be caught.

He would show them.

Silently, he dropped onto the fire escape, climbing down it swiftly much like a cat. Graceful and yet precise, the only noise the quiet clink of his boots on the metal grates. He was in his element. Mankind was a vicious and disgusting thing, full of horrors not to be found in any other creature. Capable of the most extreme acts of violence. All of it was unnecessary.

In the wild, animals fought for land, or mates, or food, or self-defense. Never mindless killing. They always had a purpose, even if it was harsh. It was natural instinct. Needed to survive and had to do what was needed. Human beings had no justification. Many criminals had food and shelter. Their lifespan was long enough in order to not require a mate. Filth did never had the excuse of self-defense. They always preyed on the weak. Animals never stabbed you in the back or mocked you. Never whored themselves on street corners. They didn't steal your money or rape you against a wall and leave you for dead. Humans were more savage than even the wildest of beasts.

The alleyway as one block over. He was lucky tonight. Any farther and he may have been too late. As it was, he arrived just in time.

Three men pinning a struggling teenage girl against the wall, tearing at her clothes. She was twisting weakly, trying to avoid a knife at her throat. How revolting. Justice would be served. The thugs didn't even see him before he was on top of them. He lunged, landing in middle of the group, scattering them like insects. They recognized him instantly. The men's roles were reversed. The frightening became the fearful. One tripped over his own feet and stumbled. Another clumsily dropped switchblade to the ground.

The largest went down first, Rorschach's full 140 pounds tackling him. He was muscular, but bulky. Too slow. He was cut out for brute force rather than hand to hand combat. Didn't have the flexibility that Rorschach did. He didn't have a chance. The thug was cussing and screaming, throwing punches and trying to swing the costumed vigilante off of his back. He was panicking too much for his movements to be anything beyond a minor inconvenience. Rorschach's elbow was raised and cracked down, hitting area between neck and shoulder. The jab struck the pressure point and the man was out for the count.

One of the scum had come to his senses and had recovered knife. He slashed at him. Rorschach threw himself backwards in order to avoid it. It was a close miss, grazing his dirty brown trench coat, ripping a fine line in it. He hissed dangerously behind his mask, dropping into a spin kick, knocking the other man's feet out from underneath him. Adrenaline pumped through his body, his brain working at high speeds. Every action of the thugs seemed to be slowed down, as if moving underwater. He had ample time to move out of the way of each punch and kick aimed towards him. His mind was screaming with the burning desire to see these men suffer as their victims had suffered. They were all that was wrong with the world.

Rorschach brought his foot down with strength his small stature didn't seem to suggest. The crack of ribs echoed, shortly followed by a piercing shriek of pain. Straddling the body of the man to restrict movement, he brought the man's head down onto the rotting concrete. Two down, one to go.

_Chh-chhck!_

The last member of the trio of filth had a pistol aimed, the barrel of the gun only a foot from Rorschach's head. Stupid. He should have noticed. He would pay for this mistake if he did not do something. The would-be rapist's hand was shaking, and yet was holding the pistol steady enough to get in a straight shot. His finger was over the trigger, prepared to press it given the slightest provocation. Rorschach's eyes moved rapidly, taking in his surroundings. He would have to improvise.

"Don't you fuckin' move!" the greasy, hoarse voice spilled from the man's mouth like oil; polluting the silence of the night.

Rorschach felt numerous small pebbles beneath his gloves, digging into the leather. There might be a chance. He had nothing to lose anyways. Slowly, so that his movements would not be mistaken for an attack, he raised his hands into the air. It was a sign of peace. Of surrender. His fists were clenched, but there was no mistaking his intentions.

The man seemed to hesitate. Uneducated to the point of stupidity. He didn't know what to do. He was only a follower. Leader had already been taken out, and he was useless without orders to follow. Hadn't ever used a gun. And he stank of fear. Obviously he recognized Rorschach from the crude drawings that were constantly being published in the newspapers.

For a second, just a split second, the thug lowered the pistol, unsure of what his next action should be; whether he should shoot or not. Any other man would not have even noticed that brief wavering. But Rorschach did.

A flick of his wrist sent the handful of pebbles flying, hitting the man directly in the eyes. The thug screamed, reaching towards his face. There was an opening, and Rorschach took it. His hand flung out, grabbing the barrel of the gun and pulling to the side. If it was fired now, he wouldn't bet hit. Bullets were a pain to remove and stitch up.

With a kick to the stomach and the slamming of the man's head into the wall and it was over.

Justice was served once again.

"Hnn…"

Rorschach turned towards the girl, who surprisingly was still there. He had expected her to run away the moment she had the chance. He opened his mouth to remind her that walking the streets alone was a bad idea when he took notice of her outfit.

A bright blue leotard with an attached black mini-skirt covered her, (though it did a poor job, as it was torn to shreds), and her legs were covered by black thigh-high boots. Her arms were clothed in black gloves. Of course, there was a cape on the ground with a blue and black a pattern that resembled feathers, as well as a black domino mask.

The girls face was tear-streaked and grimy from being pressed against the brick wall. She seemed too frightened to move and just sat there, slumped against the bricks, staring at him with her pathetic baby-blue eyes.

He felt himself scowl and knew that the blots of his face were shifting furiously. Stupid, stupid girl. Foolish. The girl was perhaps only 15-years-old, short, and without the muscles that came with frequent exercise. Her costume was now dirty and torn, but it looked to be new otherwise. Obviously this was her first time out on the street. Stupid girl. How naive to think she could handle thugs thrice her size. And her outfit was awful. Something a whore would wear.

"T-thank you." Her voice was small. Likely, her mind was trying to process all that had happened. It would come to the conclusion that she was in over her head.

He blinked behind his mask.

"A girl was gutted last month." Rorschach told her, his voice harsh and ragged, sounding much older than his actual twenty-four years of age.

Her eyes were impossibly wide as she grabbed her cape from the ground and covered herself with it.

"Wh-what…?"

"17-years-old. Costumed. She called herself The Rose Thorn. Her first time out as well. She was gutted by a gang of five men. The Rose is wilted now."

He could tell she had gotten the message.

"A payphone is two blocks away. Call the police then go home." He dug in the pocket of his trench coat and found a handful of spare change he kept for cases like these. Police needed to be informed and send car over. He was too far away from the police station to drag them there himself. Dropping the coins on the ground, he made to leave. "Take the gun. Use it if the men wake up."

Pausing, he picked up the black mask on the ground. It was one of the cheap black masks they sold around Halloween. He pocketed it, giving her a harsh glare that he knew she could feel even though she could not see his face.

"I will be taking this. You're not going to be out here again."

It wasn't a suggestion any more than the rape attempt had been a hug.

He could feel her eyes staring at him as he skulked down the alley, leaving her and the thugs behind.

* * *

The next night was even quieter than the one before. The chill of November was setting in, fast and frigid. Already there was frost in the park grass in the early mornings. Breath misted in the air when one exhaled. People were bundled up in coats and scarves and hats in order to stave off the cold. It was the coldest night of autumn, and even the criminals that usually polluted the streets were making themselves scarce, hiding in whore or crack houses. Seemed would-be victims were choosing to stay inside tonight, instead of walking the streets and making themselves vulnerable. That was good. Innocent must be protected. Evil must be punished.

It was 2:46am, and Rorschach had only stopped one mugging and one drug dealer. The knowledge that there was bigger crimes taking place and he wasn't there to stop them was maddening. But one could only get so far in New York on foot. It wasn't like he could just hop in a taxi and get a lift to the nearest criminal hot-spot. His mask was far too recognizable. Sometimes, when the night was busy, he would take the ink-blotted mask off and quietly get on the subway, his trench coat, hat, gloves, and suit jacket tucked securely underneath his arm. It wouldn't do to be recognized through his clothing. He was always ignored, keeping himself in the most heavily populated train where the crowd would help to hide him.

On this night, however, not many were out, and the risk of being noticed (no matter how slim) was one he wasn't willing to take. The criminal hotspots he had visited seemed to be relatively deserted. The usual gangs were obviously taking shelter elsewhere from the cold. It was…frustrating.

Rorschach slipped into another alley, his footsteps faintly crunching on the small pebbles and trash that littered them. Empty. Of course. No muggers, no drug dealers, no gangs, no rapists…

The incident from the previous evening was still fresh on his mind. It brought a scowl to his face. Stupid, foolish girl. Thought she could become a superhero by dressing up in a whorish outfit and lurking down dark streets. Ridiculous. The only thing that would come of it would be her death. She had looked like jail bait as it was, with her high heeled shoes and tight fitting costume. To the scum that littered the streets like trash, she was only too easy. She might as well have come onto them, with the way she was dressed. Her costume screamed at the thugs for them to take her, even if the girl was screaming for a very different reason.

He had encountered many of them, in the last few months. Teenagers trying to get attention and glory by becoming costumed heroes and fighting crime. Most of them were boys, who he found bleeding and dying at the hands of some petty thief or drug dealer. They always had very little experience with the actual fighting part. They somehow seemed to think that just by dressing up in a costume and a mask that they could take down anyone. That criminals would see their disguised face and instantly surrender. Or perhaps the kids thought that they actually had what it took to take down someone and save the day. The newspapers didn't help, always printing about the glory of superheroes. They way they had it, it was a beautiful and noble career, worthy of praise and admiration. Teenagers stuck in depression and self-doubt would be attracted to the idea of people looking up to them. Naïve and young, all of them. Too caught up in their own imaginations to see reality for what it was.

Rorschach climbed a fire escape ladder and onto the roof an abandoned storage facility. The surrounding area was one that was usually populated by scum. He would be better off waiting for the screams in the center where he could quickly investigate than walk around and be too far away to help. Never knew when another kid would try to take on seasoned criminals.

It was all Ozymandias's fault. The man who talked about crime-fighting like it was a walk in a sunlit, flower-covered park. Perhaps it was, for him. He, who was in the peak of physical condition and had the muscles to effortlessly lift a man above his head. He, who paraded around like he was a celebrity. It was no wonder that kids were turning to the costumed lifestyle. They were inspired by delusions of grandeur. They all wanted to become the next Ozymandias.

They only seemed to end up raped, hurt, or killed instead. Like 17-year-old Katie Meyer, who donned the persona of Rose Thorn for her last night alive. Pretty girl. Suffered from depression and harassment at school. Had thought that she could make it go away by fighting crime. She wasn't experienced and tried to take on one man mugging a woman, unaware of his four friends that were to meet him there. The woman escaped and called police while the group of five cornered Meyer. Then police had arrived too late. 17-year-old Katie Meyer had been beaten, raped, and then gutted like an animal. She had been left in the alley like trash.

Rorschach has been the one to find three of the five, Ozymandias and the police finding the others. Never before had he hurt another man so. All three were in the hospital, one of them suffering extensive spinal damage that came from being thrown down a twelve-story fire escape. One of them was reduced to a mental-vegetable, without the hope of ever waking up. All three of them would never walk again. The woman who had been mugged had identified them as part of the gang who had killed Katie Meyer. The police had released the fact that Rorschach had left his signature '.][. ' on the criminals and the newspapers had been running the story for days and days. They claimed that though he had been horribly violent and brutal, he was still deserving of a reward. No one was very sympathetic to the disgusting scum's injuries. The parents of the girl had released a statement thanking Rorschach for doing what they had wanted to do. They were grateful.

The criminal underworld, however, was scared. In one night, Rorschach had gone from just another costumed hero into someone's nightmare. Ozymandias beat up his criminals, sure, but not like Rorschach did. His were always sent to the emergency room, needing surgery for internal bleeding and casts for multiple broken bones.

A shriek of pain pierced the night sky, and Rorschach's head snapped towards the direction of the noise. Not far at all. Only four alleys down. The buildings were close enough together that he could jump them.

His body was already moving as he thought that, his paces long and swift. The gap between the buildings was a good twelve feet. He gained speed and leapt across them easily.

Another cry in the air, followed by the sound of fighting. Curse words were being thrown and what seemed to be the clanging of metal. That was strange. It was obviously a male voice that was screaming in pain. Perhaps it was another teenager who was in over his head. If so, Rorschach wasn't in the mood to molly-coddle him.

He jumped the last alleyway and landed on the roof, his body automatically dropping into a roll. His hat fell onto the pavement, crumpled from his body weight, but he ignored it. He would retrieve it later; he had more important things to do. Quickly, he leaned moved to the edge of the building's roof and leaned over to assess the situation. He had learned, when he had first started out, that it was better to appraise the circumstances before he charged in. It didn't take long, only a few seconds, and he came off much better in a fight because of it. He did more bad than good by jumping into a fray without evaluating it.

His eyes quickly took in the alley. For a moment, he thought that perhaps his suspicions had been correct, but then another screech of distress proved him wrong. The scene below him was one he hadn't witnessed before, and he had seen almost everything.

It would have been a common scene. There were four men, and from the open briefcases on the grounds, it was obvious that they were drug dealers. However, that was not what was so unusual. There was a fifth man present.

One dressed in costume.

He had thought that it was one of the misguided teenagers, trying to save the day, like Rose Thorn and the girl last night had. And at first glance, that was what it was. A kid in a costume was fighting with four fully grown men. A normal situation, if an aggravating one.

Until you took a closer look and noticed that the kid was _winning_. It had been the _criminal_ who had screamed.

Rorschach crouched, ready to leap in and assist at the first sign of trouble. He was intrigued. The kid was winning, escaping the thrown punches and swung kicks aimed towards him, shooting some sort of… what was that? Was that a net? It appeared that it was, as two men went down, cussing up a storm and struggling with the netting that trapped them. This wasn't normal. Not at all. Normal people didn't have net guns on them.

The kid, though perhaps that wasn't fitting, as he seemed to be only a few years younger than Rorschach, was dressed in a dark, navy blue bodysuit, with brown boots, gloves, cape, and cowl. The shoulders of the cloak jutted outwards stiffly, as did the top of the cowl, which ended in slight upward point. Almost like horns. Large gold goggles covered his slightly pudgy face, which was lit with excitement. Around his waist was a gold colored utility belt, with pouches and holsters for a various things. There was a symbol on the front of it, but as the kid spun, Rorschach couldn't make it out.

He did, however, make out the patterns on the back of the cape. Black triangular darts. They resembled feathers, somewhat. Perhaps he was naming himself after a bird?

The net gun was slipped back into its holster, as the kid ducked, moving just a bit too slowly. He wasn't skinny or in top shape, but he wasn't unfit. His slight bulk made it more difficult to dodge the punch aimed at him, and the fist caught him in the chin. He stumbled backwards, his gloved hand fumbling for something on his belt. Detaching it, he palmed the object and then swiftly flicked his wrist. The object, whatever it was, flew into the air and hit the thug in the head, knocking him out instantly. The projectile fell to the ground with a metallic clatter, and it was then that Rorschach saw what it was. The symbol that had been attached to the front of the kid's belt. It looked like it was some sort of curved disk.

A moon?

Well, it hardly mattered. If the kid was good enough (and it seemed he was, though Rorschach couldn't judge from only one encounter), Rorschach would figure out who he was eventually. Until then, it wasn't worth bothering about. This wasn't some helpless little victim. Obviously he could take care of himself.

The kid was now carefully tying up the criminals, who were still screaming their head off. This would attract attention. It would be best to leave before someone arrived.

Rorschach carefully took a few steps backwards, making sure that he couldn't be seen from the ground. After waiting a moment, he saw the new costumed hero make his way out of the alley to find a pay phone. The cops would show up soon.

Finally, after staring at the kid a few more seconds, Rorschach turned and began his trek over the roofs (Making sure to scoop his hat up as he did so).

Hopefully this new costumed hero would be better than Ozymandias.

**To Be Continued...**

* * *

**Some important notes:** This story takes place in 1964, when Rorschach was only 24-years-old and has been fighting crime for only eight months. Some of you may have noticed his speech patterns are a bit off, and not like the Rorschach we all know and love. Well, if you read the Graphic Novel (If you haven't, you are really missing out!), you'll notice that in the Flashback with the failed Crimebuster meeting, Rorschach speaks rather normally, using first-person singular pronouns. And from the flashbacks on his past, we can see that he was an ordinary (if extremely serious) person, before he took up the mantel of Rorschach. So I had to have him speak differently than during 1985, when he is 45-years-old. In case anyone is wondering, Daniel is 20-years-old in this story, having been born before August of 1945. I am not sure of the exact date, but I may make it up later.

_**Authors Note:**__ Hello once more! So, this idea has been rumbling around in my head for a while, and I finally decided to just sit down and write it. Of course, my inspiration, which has been running so wonderfully these last few weeks, decided to fail mid-chapter. Go figure. But eventually, I finished. This story will cover the meeting of Rorschach and Daniel, as well as their future partnership and take-down of Big Figure. I am not sure how frequently I shall be able to update, but you should expect the next chapter within a week or two, give or take. Watchmen is so complex that it takes a while to get anything decent typed. Especially since this story is about a mostly unexplored period in Watchmen history. _

_Anyways, I shall try to update as soon as possible. Reviews are always welcome, especially if you have any questions, comments, or spotted any irregularities. I am trying to keep the story accurate to the time period, but I know that I will make a few mistakes, as I was not around in the 60's. Feel free to PM me for any reason. I have a Watchmen forum on here for anyone who wants to discuss the fantastic GN/Movie.  
_

_Thanks for reading!  
-Alex  
(Alexandra-the-Great91)_


	2. Chapter Two

**Unlikely Allies  
Chapter Two**

_Rorschach's Journal, November 13th, 1964. 5:52am._

_This city is a termite mound, and the vermin swarm around the streets, biting and eating through what little goodness is left. Am I to be the only foot that is crushing these insects? No one else wants to get their hands dirty. No. No one will help. I am alone in this quest. Me and the filth of this cesspool city. Costumed Heroes save lives for fame. Capture scum for glory. Not one of them. I will never be one of them. I see the true nature of this world. The helpless cry out to be saved, and it seems like only I am the only one who will answer their calls. Humankind is spiraling down, and all we can do is hold on and scream._

_.][._

The routine of writing in his journal was becoming a pleasant break from the constant pounding of criminals in the alleys. Not that Rorschach ever truly took a break; even when he wasn't wearing his mask, he kept his eyes and ears open, but it was nice to sit and reflect on the nights events. There was something comforting about the brittle creamy paper and the scratching of his pencil and he poured himself into the small leather book. Perhaps the only thing he was closest to was the Journal. It knew him, both in and out of costume. It knew his desires, his wants, his needs, and his hates. No one else did. He made sure of that. He wouldn't and couldn't let anyone else in. No one would understand anyways. He didn't want them to. When you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.

It was a busy night tonight, a welcome change from the past few days. The weather was changing; growing increasingly colder. Winter was fast approaching, and with it came the normal nuisances of the changing of the seasons. Frost now clung to blades of grass and car windshields each morning, melting away only hours after forming. The normally dull city seemed to be even more muted, the colors dim and not as bright as usual. The inhabitants of this rotting cement jungle were changing as well. The innocent and good stuck closer to home. They didn't want to be caught after dark, which fell earlier and earlier. The night was a dangerous thing here. It was an animal that thrived on the scent of fear and naivety.

The filth were changing their habits as well, sticking together in larger groups. Perhaps, though, this was more out of apprehension than necessity. It was no secret that costumed vigilantes roamed the streets, searching for them, hiding in the shadows. Ozymandias was out each night, prowling the organized crime scene, tracking down corrupt politicians and trying to cut down on the many mobs that made their homes in New York. He was daily making newspapers and headlines, his photos and fan-merchandise becoming popular. Criminals feared him, though not as much as they fear Dr. Manhattan. Dr. Manhattan was occasionally seen, though his patrols were less and less frequent. The scum of the city feared blue, and one hint at his arrival and they fled. This would ordinarily be a good thing. Rorschach was skeptical. A man with that much power could not be trusted. Not confined to the limits of humanity. One wrong idea from the transformed Jon (Manhattan) Osterman, and it could be the death of them all.

But apart from the superhuman terror that struck fear into the criminal's hearts, there was one other vigilante that they feared.

Rorschach was the newest horror that prowled the streets. He was a ghost in the night, drifting through alleys like fog, blinding them, overpowering them, and dissipating just as quickly. Those who robbed the innocent of their safety were no longer themselves safe. He would find them and see to it that justice would be served. One by one, if necessary. There was power in numbers, they figured. Too big a group and they would be invincible, they thought. Rorschach didn't think so. He didn't find a group threatening. He found them a challenge.

Rorschach looked around, peering through his mask at the surround area. No criminals nearby, it seemed. A shame. They were hiding, polluting other alleys with their filth and grime. Disgusting. He wanted to eradicate every last one of them. He would never stop until they were all gone. Oh, he knew that there would always be corruption and crime. It seemed to be some sort of beast that lay sleeping in humanity, waking up more and more frequently. The world was dying, being smothered underneath the smog caused by the waste that is mankind. It would be better, really, to just take out all Human Beings. Except for the rare innocent. Those small few who remained untouched by the horrors of the world. Infants. Children. Ordinary people going about their daily lives, giving money to charity and volunteering. The people who genuinely wanted this world to change for the better. They were the ones that Rorschach fought for. And he would fight until his dying breath. They were worth the endless struggle.

He blinked, looking up. The sky was a mix of soft blue, light gold, and pale pink. Already dawn. It was pretty, if he stopped to take it in, which he rarely ever did. The sunrise of New York was like an gift-wrapped bomb. Beautiful on the outside, deadly on the inside. The array of colors that spread over the city was a colorful mask hiding a deformity. A glimmering smile that hid a black heart. Pretty, but nothing more than a falsification.

Still, the night was now over. The mask, which dominated the darkness, would be tucked away securely, revealing the face beneath it. Rorschach didn't come out in the daylight. He was a creature of the night, a shadow that lurked in the alleys, waiting to swallow up the evil that hid there. There was no use for Rorschach during the day. The streets were too heavily populated and the police more vigil. The day was for the innocent and the good. Rorschach did not belong with them.

Time to go to his broken down apartment and catch those precious few hours of sleep. He had to work later on in the day, and falling asleep at the sewing machine or not measuring correctly due to bleary eyes was something that would get him fired. And work was in high demand, nowadays.

Time to leave.

* * *

_Brrrrrrr_.

Pause. Adjust.

_Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr_.

Snag. Adjust.

_Brrrrrrrrrrrrr_.

Turn. Prick finger on pin.

_Brrrrrrrrrrrr_.

There was something very relaxing about the loud humming of the sewing machine, as it traversed the thick fabric, creating lines with ever so perfect stitches. The noise seemed to drown out the rest of the rotten world, muting everything else but the pleasing, gentle hum of the device. The city was like a concert hall filled with hundreds of different instruments, all playing different songs at the exact same time sounding nothing more than fingernails on a chalkboard. People screamed and shouted and talked all at once. Cars honked their horns and sirens wailed down the road towards the nearest crash. Sometimes he thought he would go deft from the constant noise. At night it was better. Most of the city's inhabitants were sleeping, creating a temporary hush that blanketed the streets and houses.

However, the loud hum of the sewing machine blocked it all out. The table vibrated beneath his hand as he gently guided the fabric towards the thrumming needle. The small light shown on his work, highlighting the small stitches and the pattern marks. Truly, it was something that he could focus on with all his concentration, able to, for once, ignore the rest of the world.

Walter Kovacs came to the end of the sleeve and reversed the stitch once for durability before removing his foot from the pedal. Finally. Perhaps, if there was nothing left on the queue, he could go home. He was tired and if he left soon, he could squeeze in a few hours of sleep before his nightly patrol. Fighting crime on little sleep was a risk he wasn't willing to take. Already he was dangerously behind on his rest. Just the other day he had caught himself dozing at the machine, nearly sewing through his finger.

Cutting the thread from the disgustingly pastel-blue dress (something a drug-dealing hippie scum would wear), Walter stood from the set and stretched, reaching his arms above his head. He heard a satisfying crack from his back, which was aching from hunching over the sewing machine. The long hours slumped over the ill-adjusted table caused his back to ache something terrible, upsetting previous injuries he sustained during his nights. He never noticed those injuries when he was in costume, strangely. He could go for hours while bleeding and only notice the pain once the mask was taken off. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. It seemed that he was becoming more dependent on his nightly persona to keep him going. Walter was pushing his true self to the back to make room for this new, infallible vigilante.

Crumpling the dress in his hands, he made his way to a table a few meters away from him. A co-worker, a man by the name of Gerald Christophen (Who he suspected of cheating on his wife. Despicable), sat on the uncomfortable wooden chair, bent over his own work.

"Order 27." Walter said, holding up the dress, glad to be rid of the offending article. He loathed making the clothing that hippie filth bought, but a job was a job. He needed to keep his current apartment as it was particularly ideal for his unusual nightlife. The place was mostly run down, with few respectable families, and all of them kept to themselves. His neighbor was partially blind and deft, and thus never took notice of Rorschach's comings and goings. It was a rare situation, and one he intended to make last.

Gerald looked up from his hemming and scrutinized him closely.

"Already? Hell, man, you work fast."

"Hnn." Walter grunted, not in the mood for conversation. He never was. "Take the dress, I am clocking out."

The man twisted his mouth into a rough smile, taking a drag from his cigarette. It wasn't allowed to smoke on the job. No one ever paid any attention to that rule. Except Walter, who never had and never would touch the vile things. Gerald took the dress, giving a wolf-whistle at the perfect sewing job.

"Christ, you're a goddamn machine. I don't see how ya' do it." He grumbled, blowing a perfect smoke ring. It sailed through the air, and Walter wanted to bat it away, but he was forced to keep a positive working relationship with his co-workers. He would not lower himself to being rude. A curt politeness was all that was needed. "Huh, see ya' tomarrow, eh Kovacs?"

But Walter was already walking away. He wasn't one to converse with his fellow co-workers often, and if forced to, he kept his words short and to the point. More often than not, he would simply communicate with a series of grunts or nods. Or he would simply leave and say nothing at all. He had heard speculation from his fellow workers (who gossiped like middle-aged housewives) that they thought he was mentally retarded or had some other disability. His steps were always slow and casual. One would think that he was stoned, with his blank, slightly out-of-it expression and rather sluggish steps, but if one cared to really look into his eyes, they would see a deadly intelligence and a constant alertness that screamed of awareness.

He couldn't afford to be caught off guard. There was always a chance, a slightest chance, that one of the residents of his apartment building had seen him as Rorschach and made the connection between his constant comings and goings. It was a stretch, yes, considering the fact that most of the residents were on heavy drug use and were too wasted to notice anything but the next hit of the pipe. But the chance, no matter how small, was there, and he always had to be on alert.

Still, if his co-workers thought him stupid or slow or mentally incompetent, all the better. He encouraged their opinions. None of them would think that he, Walter Kovacs, a dawdling idiot, was secretly a dangerous and feared vigilante. It was amusing, almost, how far their opinions were from the truth.

The staff room was cramped, as always. The room was far too small to even be called a staff room, really. More like a medium sized utility room that held a coffee pot , a few chairs, a table, and an old TV, which was more static than picture. The room stank of stale smoke and alcohol and the stench of unwashed sweating bodies cramped together. Walter's lip curled as he jostled his way towards the time charts, his stomach clenching as his body came in contact with others. Sweat and cigarette smell clung to their sweaty skin, which brushed against his shirt and arm. He shuddered in revulsion.

Conversation spilled around him, a blur of gruff laughter, growls, mumbling and coughing. Voices were indistinguishable from each other normally, and he hardly bothered to pay attention to the meaningless babbling of the masses. However, as he reached the time charts to clock out, his ears automatically picked out one particular discussion from the sea of co-workers.

"—Rorschach. I heard that 'e keeps outta the papers as much as possible. All the good it'll do, huh? Media is fuckin' ruthless. He's all they can talk about anymore."

"Him and Ozzy-whats-his-name."

"Huh, Not anymore. New costumed freak, boys."

"Goddamn, another one? They keep fuckin' appearing, don't they? Who's it this time? The Blender or some shit like that?"

"Nah, some bird guy. Heard a few guys mention it's in today's paper. Pushed yesterdays game to page three, can you fuckin' believe that?"

"No shit? Damn costumed bastards."

Walter quickly clocked out and turned, browsing the room. The pages of the paper were scattered throughout the occupants. No chance of finding the front page in all this clutter and chaos. He would have to buy his own. Snatching his threadbare coat from the hooks on the wall, he pushed and shoved his way out of the room.

The air outside was colder than normal, and it promised that the nights would be even more chilly than they had been. Snow would be falling any day now, which would be horribly inconveniencing for him. His day coat was little more than rags by now, as was the rest of his clothing, and offered very little in the way of protection from the elements. All except his costume, which was always quite warm. He made a note to go to the second hand store on his next day off. While he had next to no money for anything more than his rent and a few groceries, it wouldn't do to freeze to death. His one room apartment was very drafty and it was only slightly warmer than outside. He would have to stock up on warm clothing, despite his lack of money.

Food could wait a few days if need be. He would take warmth over a full stomach any day.

The walk to the nearest newspaper stand was short, but the frigid wind whipped and bit at his exposed face, burning his cheeks and numbing his nose and ears. It was times like these when he wished he had his mask and scarf on. The latex was rather wind resistant and protected his face from most elements. However, his mask was far too recognizable, even if his actual picture hadn't been put in the paper. They still published rather accurate drawings, based off eyewitness descriptions. He would have settled for his cream colored scarf, an article of clothing that was so common that no one would give it a second glance. But Walter firmly believed in separating his costumed life from his real life completely. He already let them bleed over into each other far too often.

Walter's short red hair ruffled in the icy wind as he hurried the last few steps to the newspaper vendor, who sat on a chair next to the paper racks, smoking drowsily. He scanned the front pages eagerly, looking for a mention of the newest costumed hero. Sure enough, there it was. The headline large and bold, with a scratchy drawing of a man. Walter dug into his pockets and grabbed some loose change, dropping it into the man's hand distractedly, snatching the paper from the rack.

He jogged towards the bus stop and settled on the uncomfortable metal seat. It would be another fifteen minutes before a bus would be coming through, one that would lead him a few blocks from his apartment. Plenty of time to read about the newest vigilante.

The front page screamed out the headline for all the world to read:

'_**Nite Owl II Fly's In, Rescues Kidnapped Girl'**_

The article itself wasn't important, as it was more speculation than actual facts. The only one who could provide any true information was four-year-old Regan Murdock, who was too young to give any accurate account of the events. The police who had arrived on the scene were able to briefly see and speak to this so called Nite Owl II, who had apprehended the kidnapper after tracking him for two days. The man had stayed with the little girl to wait for the police to arrive and then quickly gave the information to the officers before he had jumped from a window and seemed to disappear.

It was interesting, despite it's likely inaccuracy, but was what was more interesting was the drawing that was published alongside the article.

A man dressed in a dark blue body suit with a brown cowl that was now obviously meant to resemble an owl. A long brown cloak, with darker brown triangles. Brown boots and gloves, as well as strange goggles that covered the man's eyes. The utility belt around the man's waist was what had caught Walter's eye, however. While the many gadgets were half-sketched due to lack of detail, the crescent shaped disk was very distinct.

Obviously, this was the same kid that Rorschach had seen five nights ago, beating and winning against a few thugs in an alleyway. Hmm. Nite Owl II. Definitely a name that would be easily remember, as well as one that would strike fear into the criminals hearts, if this new vigilante was anything like the Original Nite Owl; the now retired Hollis Mason. A well chosen name. Hopefully, the kid would do his predecessor justice, though if what Walter both had seen and read, there was little doubt that he would and already was.

The city bus pulled up, and Walter, folding up his the newspaper, boarded it.

**To Be Continued…**

**

* * *

**

_Authors Note:__ Hello again, everyone. If I remember correctly, I said I would only be about two weeks to get the chapter out. Instead, it takes me over a month. I deeply apologize that it has taken me so long to get this chapter out. I was having the worst time writing it. Walter Kovacs in 1964 is surprisingly difficult to portray and me and him were having a bit of a struggle. Still, In the end, I won. Also, I was very busy sewing and whatnot. I have been working on the Original Silk Spectre's costume from the movie. I only need to make the underbust corset and I'll be done! Also, I have been working on making the entire Watchmen group-- in Plushie Form! They are adorable, especially The Comedian, with his little guns and whatnot. Hahaha!_

_I know this is a bit of a short chapter, and for that I am sorry. But I want to get it out as soon as possible since I took so long already. In the next chapter, everyone's favorite Masked Sociopath will meet Nite Owl II for the first time. I shall try to get it out in a few weeks, but it depends on whether my creativity will let me. Stay tuned!_

_Ta!  
-Alex  
(Alexandra-the-Great91)_


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